I never told my boyfriend’s snobbish parents that I owned the bank holding their massive debt. To them, I was just a “barista with no future.” At their yacht party, his mother pushed me toward the edge of the boat and sneered, “Service staff should stay below deck,” while his father laughed, “Don’t get the furniture wet, trash.” My boyfriend adjusted his sunglasses and didn’t move. Then, a siren blared across the water. A police boat pulled up alongside the yacht… and the Bank’s Chief Legal Officer stepped aboard with a megaphone, looking directly at me. “Madam President, the foreclosure papers are ready for your signature.”

I stood on the aft deck of the Sea Sovereign, a one hundred and fifty foot monument to excess, feeling the Atlantic breeze tangle my hair. I was wearing a simple linen dress and leather sandals, understated and comfortable, and according to the woman lounging on the white divan five feet away, completely unacceptable.

“Logan, darling,” Vivienne drawled while swirling a martini that was mostly gin and condensation, her oversized designer sunglasses tilting as she inspected me. “Tell your friend that the crew quarters are downstairs if she needs a restroom, because we do not want the guest facilities clogged.”

Logan, the man I had been dating for eight months, laughed lazily while stretching across a deck chair with careless ease. He took a sip from his imported beer and said, “Mom is just particular, Addison is a guest.”

“Is she really,” Franklin muttered while struggling to light his cigar against the wind, his face puffed and irritated. “She looks like she is here to refill the ice buckets, which are empty by the way.”